


Plot Twist

by marzipan (orphan_account)



Series: mollcroftiarty [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (internal screaming), AU, F/M, Gen, Humor, Imaginary Babies, M/M, Multi, excessive hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-15 10:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/marzipan
Summary: James Moriarty is a best-selling crime thriller author, who, out of the blue, turns in a romance novel in lieu of his 13th book. Molly deduces this is due to the return of his crush - MI6 agent-turned-writer Mycroft Holmes, and so being the wonderful friend and editor she is, she tries to set them up.James, mortified, tries to set Molly up with Mycroft in turn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse

The office is aflutter with gossip and new blood and Molly, having somehow developed a sense for it in her over the years at Baker Street Publishing House, stands from her desk to peek out the door.

 

“I hear he’s some sort of spy,” Belinda, one of the assistants, whispers behind a colored folder. “Mycroft Holmes, MI6.”

 

Molly starts. Crime fiction was  _ her _ domain. 

 

The Holmeses were famous enough, in London society, but the eldest brother had always been sort of a mystery.

 

“No, he was, but he’s some politician’s aide now,” says Mina, the editor whose office was right next to Molly’s. She smiles, seeing Molly poke her head out her office like a turtle, and waves her in.

 

Belinda wrinkles her nose. “You don’t think he’s angling for a career in politics, do you? With a position so low a rung on the ladder…”

 

Molly cocks her head, watching the man in question wait politely for a meeting in a room on the other side of the second floor entirely. She was glad for the all-glass walls up here, some days. They all were.

 

“So, what’s he here for?” Molly asks. 

 

“He’s Greg’s new author,” Mina says. Sure enough, Greg Lestrade’s assistant steps into view, ushering the tall man into Greg’s office, where the pair are partially obscured by the quarter-drawn blinds.

 

“Evidently,” Mina continues, pausing as she snorts to reign in her laughter. “He writes these nursery story books on the side now.”

 

“What!” Molly blurts it out without thinking. In his dark charcoal pinstripe, perfectly tailored no less, with his little shiny pocketwatch chain and the antiquated waistcoat, he cut a severe if slightly eccentric figure that she couldn’t quite picture in a nursery.

 

They see Greg and Mycroft Holmes share a laugh, the editor showing him a photo of his family he keeps on his desk. Then the ex-spy turns, just enough so he catches the trio of women watching. Belinda covers her face with the folder in hand immediately, in effect waving a big orange flag to signal their busybodyness.

 

And he catches Molly’s eye. 

 

He smiles, just a small one, and in an instant the stony figure morphs into another portrait entirely; his facade melts away to reveal a mischievous glint in the eye and the satisfied humor in a quirk of the lips.

 

And, okay, she does want to see him in a nursery now. Holding a newborn, a newlywed glow about him-

 

Molly shakes her head violently, clearing it of the absurdity.

 

Get a grip!, she wants to say. How unprofessional!

 

She ducks back into her office to prepare for a meeting with one of her own authors.

 

.

 

James Moriarty is a bit of a peculiar character.

 

He is an  _ incredibly _ prolific writer, for which Molly is thankful, but this somehow doesn’t preclude him from the club of authors from whom it is decidedly difficult to wrangle out chapters.

 

To date, James, Jim to most of his readers, has published over 30 books. He’s really only known for a dozen of them. 

 

Molly has known him since she was a junior editor a decade ago, getting her start in publishing, and had taken him on despite his work being so far out of her genre wheelhouse.

 

It’d been a surreal novel with a bit of a Grimm fairy tale quality set in the deep dark woods, but it didn’t quite hit that “horror” note, being instead interspersed with poetry at seemingly random points, and it had swiftly been passed over by everyone else. 

 

On a whim, she had called him for a meeting and wondered if they could discuss the book sans poetry, and he promptly hung up on her.

 

But less than a week later, she found a manuscript from JM in her inbox. A first person account of an old man disappearing into the woods, beginning as a very human portrait of grief, and descending into a tale of terror and loss of self. It was strange but - gripping, in a way. And it did alright for a niche audience. 

 

She’d expected more like that from him for his next book, now that they had discussed and legalized their partnership, or perhaps maybe they would pursue the vein of poetry. But no. The next draft he’d sent her was a space opera.

 

The next one was about pirates, and then a period piece of lust and intrigue set during Carnival. Then unrelated five books, back to back, about time travel. The first of which was a  _ teen fiction _ novel where a young boy somehow travels back in time to meet  _ Shakespeare _ . 

 

There were enough hits in the mix, thankfully, that they far offset the experiments that didn’t quite find their audience. And so it went.

 

James, having come to trust Molly and her incisive insight, with her surgically precise notes, would willingly discuss whichever book they were working on. But he never once answered questions about the mad genre hopping. 

 

So Molly was admittedly skeptical when he sent her a crime thriller manuscript -  _ finally, something in her genre -  _ and said it was meant to be part of a series. Truth be told, she didn’t quite think he had the capacity to commit to a series. 

 

They signed the contracts anyway, and  _ Spider’s Web _ turned out to be a tremendous hit. Jim Brook was an overnight sensation. There were films and TV series in the works, with really quite an impressive roster of A-list talent lined up.

 

But now - this afternoon, in fact - they were supposed to discuss the thirteenth and final installation of the  _ Web _ series and what might become of it going forward. 

 

Her bosses, in light of the lucrative film optioning, were gunning for a spin-off series to be announced before the series’ end. And that didn’t seem likely what with James’s history of interests.

 

Sure, it was possible that James had finally hit his stride with this series of crime thrillers - and truly, Molly thought they were some of his best work, equally full of intrigue with the carefully painted underworld of crime and psychologically chilling in the depiction of the human mind.

 

But it was also just as likely that this was only because James, Molly knew, had tremendous follow-through ability. He could have simply meant to write 13 books, as he had intended to at the beginning, and then turn in a- a nursery story book, for all Molly knew.

 

She bites her lip as she waits in the cafe.

 

Molly checks her phone again - no message and no reply. Not unusual; James rarely texted, rarely corresponded at all unless he was the one reaching out, and even then only when he had a specific question or request. It wasn’t that they weren’t friendly, it was just - he was busy. Or at least, he had peculiar habits when he worked. 

 

She spots him at the entrance of the restaurant, stuck in the doorway as a crowd of uni students push past him into the establishment and then floundering as another couple exits past him. 

 

Her eyes go wide. 

 

Molly always forgets what a disconnect there is between who James Moriarty is, and who he appears to be. At first glance he is soft and timid and doe-eyed and looks like he wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less speak out of turn. Molly knows James is sharp as anything with a mind that can plan anything six ways to Sunday and quickly loses interest in anything that doesn’t require his military-grade laser focus. 

 

She winces, then, remembering a clip still floating somewhere on the internet where, during a book signing at a convention, a particularly catty reader asked a question that sent him into a rage, James standing and nearly flipping the table (he might’ve thrown a pen), bellowing something ridiculous and then possibly calling the man a doofus. 

 

It was so unexpected that viewers came down on either side equally, and eventually the incident was left alone completely and more or less forgotten. Molly shudders. She’d learned to try to parade him out at public events too often or for too long, after that. 

 

It takes James another two tries before he finally makes it past the doors and into the restaurant. He looks a bit harried by the time he gets to her table, and then blurts out, “I can’t stay.”

 

Molly raises an eyebrow. He looks down and sees she’s already ordered him tea, in a steaming pot, with the sugar cubes and milk and everything. He ignores it, refusing to let himself be played. 

 

Then he rummages through his messenger bag and pulls out a big, crinkled envelope. From the width, Molly can tell there’s got to be at least 300 pages in there.

 

“Did you-?” He’d already written it? Her heart soars. 

 

James nods, frantically, and then sets it down on his plate instead of her open hands, readying himself for a quick getaway.

 

“I have to go,” he says in a rush, before he turns on his heel to do just that.

 

“Wait! James, it’s not just the book, we have other things to talk about!” Molly calls after him, standing. 

 

It’s too late. He crashes into another two or three people, but he crowds his way out the door much quicker than the way he got in.

 

Molly exhales, loudly, as she deflates back into her seat. She might as well have the lunch she’d already ordered, and get started on this lovely book. 

 

Editing  _ Web _ has been the highlight of her career, truly, and she will honestly be sad to see that end. She fires off a text, and email, and then leaves a voicemail for good measure, demanding they set another meeting to discuss everything they didn’t today.

 

Then she pulls the heavy stack of papers over, and slides it out of the envelope. Titleless. She feels a tingle of anticipation, and gets ready to read.

 

_ Margaret Heartly was, by every measure, a good woman. _

 

What?

 

Molly skims the rest of the page - line upon line of description about this  _ Margaret _ character, in this light, tongue-in-cheek tone. There are ribbons, and  _ lace _ , and Margaret is, is some sort of society girl-

 

Molly flips, and flips again. Page after page of this idyllic setting, this society life - where was her good detective? Where was the notorious criminal Spider they’d come to love and hate in equal measure, who would finally face justice in this last book?

 

Molly thumbs through the 300-some pages in a panic, but gets distracted momentarily as the waiter sets down her dish. And in that moment she catches a line-

 

_ Margaret watched as, with that single announcement, she lost everything. Her betrothed, her family name, her place in society.  _

 

_ Just the day before, she had thought herself the happiest person in the world. Funny, that. _

 

Molly frowns, and finds herself flipping back to the beginning, settling in to read. 

 

“Oh,” she says, stopping the waiter. “I think I’ll have that glass of wine after all.”

 

.

 

It’s not until the maître d' clears her throat and politely informs Molly the restaurant is closing for dinner prep that she finally breaks her reverie, the two of them glancing at her now cold, but still fairly untouched meal.

 

It’s an awkward departure, but Molly’s a regular and she tips well. She gets a cab and heads straight home, bypassing the office now that it’s late, and doesn’t put the manuscript down once, not even as she shoves some food into the microwave and draws a bath. 

 

She’s bathed and toasty warm and Margaret has pined for her beloved Michael for 296 pages when Molly is finally settling into bed, eager to see the moment when Michael, after all this time, acknowledges her feelings.

 

And so entranced is Molly that she doesn’t realize how close she is to the end of the manuscript until she’s grasping that last page and-

 

No, that can’t be right.

 

He’s stopped in the middle of a sentence.

 

All that James has written, is that Margaret is standing under that spot,  _ their spot _ , waiting to see if she can catch a glimpse of Michael and - 

 

“What the  _ hell _ happens next?!” Molly exclaims, startling so fully that her cat leaps up and off the bed.

 

She has just  _ suffered _ through an agonizingly long not-quite-courtship where Margaret Heartly, a sweet-yet-clever society girl, is about to have it all: a reunion with her beloved, the inheritance her cousin squandered, and her family’s name rightfully restored. 

 

The heroine had just gotten engaged, at the beginning of the book, when news came that the evil cousin had squandered the family’s savings in illegal dealings and gambling alike, and everything they had was seized. The poor girl was practically thrown out on the streets, and thus began a long and fraughtful fight to get word to her beloved while the two of them were estranged and torn apart by the circumstances. The betrothal was null, of course, seeing as her family was now a black mark in society. 

 

And Margaret had had to claw her way back brick by brick, building herself a network from those very men who had repossessed her family’s everything, until her very own name became notorious. And then, at the height of it all, finding herself having become the opposite of everything she was ever meant to be, she sees him again - Michael. 

 

Michael, beautiful, perfect Michael, who seemed a quiet bore at first but quickly revealed himself to be complicated and duty-bound and, ruthless, even when pushed. Not the tortured Romantic hero, per se, but someone who held far more interesting secrets. 

 

Oh, if only they could have spoken that moment!

 

But no, Molly had suffered yet a hundred more pages of them  _ noticing  _ each other but never getting the chance to  _ reveal anything  _ and, hell, Margaret’s plight has been  _ harrowing _ and she deserved closure.  _ Molly _ deserves closure. 

 

What a terrible thing it was, to lose love simply because of status. To feel you can’t even  _ speak _ to the person you love most because you aren’t right - because you don’t have the right name, or the right trust fund. 

 

Molly feels around blindly on her nightstand for her phone, flipping the pages to make sure she hasn’t missed anything, when she realizes it’s not there because she’s been so distracted that she hasn’t even taken her  _ phone _ out of her  _ coat  _ pocket.

 

Molly sighs, hopping out of bed and jogging back into the foyer while hoping the battery isn’t dead. It isn’t, thankfully, and she calls James immediately, realizing belatedly that it’s nearly three in the morning.

 

And perhaps that’s why he picks up.

 

“Where is the rest of it, James?” Molly asks. There’s no response. “Hello? James, are you there?”

 

She bites her lip.

 

“Are you awake?” she asks, a little less demanding. More silence.

 

“Did you like it?” he asks, hesitantly. 

 

“ _ Like _ it?” Molly laughs. “James, I couldn’t put it down from the moment you gave it to me at lunch.”

 

“Hmm,” is James’s only response, and non-committal at that. Then he huffs, and hangs up on her. 

 

Molly stares at her phone in shock.

 

That utter  _ bastard. _

 

.

 

Molly goes in to the office the next day, and makes all the necessary preparations for the publication of this particular novel, once she can wrangle the rest of it out of her genius writer. 

 

She’s making a list of questions when, across the open chasm between her office and Greg’s, she sees Mycroft Holmes.

 

Molly immediately turns red. 

 

She ducks her head down, scribbling furiously as she tries to convince herself he did  _ not _ see her looking. And not least because she might have,  _ completely unintentionally _ , cast Mycroft Holmes as  _ Michael _ in her head, as she was reading, completely by accident. 

 

It meant nothing at all. She hardly knew the man. It must have been simply because his long lines, beautiful as they were, left an impression. A single glance could not have told her that he wore his perfectly tailored three-piece suits like armor, that he appeared genteel and perhaps a bit cutting but harbored a casket of secrets and a secretly romantic side. 

 

Oh God, she was  _ projecting _ . She was making up this  _ Mycroft Holmes _ character into the fictional one she’d just read. Dammit, James.

 

Molly finds her fingers moving toward her keyboard anyway, the notes forgotten, she starts to type…

 

Ah, yes. Google, old friend.

 

As expected from a former intelligence agent, there isn’t much to find about him. Not even social media, except what appears a newly made Twitter account to promote his book series. Oh dear, they were dedicated to his niece, Rosie. It was so  _ sweet. _

 

Huh. 

 

She squints at a university newspaper scan, trying to make out a young Mycroft Holmes in the picture. He’s probably not there. Oh but this maths club? It sounds like something James was in. Molly snorts.

 

But still, they went to the same school, and Mycroft Holmes must have been finishing out graduate studies while James was just a year or two in.

 

She finishes her list of questions, and compiles her notes, and then prepares to do what she has only twice in her decade as James’s editor done, no matter how hard he has been to reach.

 

She goes to his house. 

 

.

 

Except, the more she considers it, the more she thinks it might not be so far-fetched.

 

She has a decent theory going by the time she reaches James’s front door, fishing through her purse for the copy of the key she was given for use under only  _ the most dire _ circumstances. She agreed, knowing that should she abuse the method or appear once too often, James would remember she had it and in one of his paranoid fits change the locks. Or worse, his address. He’d disappeared to Iceland once, for six months, convinced the government had some interest in his whereabouts. 

 

She closes the door behind her gingerly and then quietly dials James’s number. The phone is still ringing when she steps into the living room to find him already pacing and gearing up to be defensive. He’s been expecting her.

 

She puts away the phone and holds up the manuscript.

 

“Is this about Mycroft Holmes?” she asks without preamble.

 

He stops in his tracks and his face goes slack.

 

It’s another moment before he finds his voice.

 

“What?”

 

She sets the manuscript down on his immaculate coffee table. God, his house was pristine. For someone who gave off such frenetic energy and the impression of such a scattered mind, his home and office were the most beautifully organized Molly had ever  _ seen _ . Interior design magazines couldn’t compare; their artistic directors would cry, tears of joy of course, seeing how James lived. Minimalist heaven. Every sheet of paper its own place. Not a single pen in the wrong style to break the aesthetic. 

 

He sinks down into his leather sofa, staring up at her as if she’d given him a death sentence.

 

“How-” he mouths the word more than he voices it. “What?”

 

He’d mentioned someone once, who he’d gone to university with, briefly, and had a terrible crush on. Nothing came of it, and it sounded like the other party had gone somewhere far away. Special operations, Molly now suspects.

 

And then the same week this supposed spy returns to civilian life and is on the radio with that (utterly sinful, let’s be honest) voice of his, doing an interview about this little story book series that was going to be published, because for whatever reason they’d written about it in the local news when some schools in the area started printing their own - it was very popular with toddlers, if that really a  _ thing  _ \- 

 

Well, the timeline worked out. In that week, James must have caught wind of his return, had all the feelings of The One That Got Away dredged up again, and worked through the hours nonstop, writing his sad, unfinished love letter rather than working on the 13th  _ Web _ installment.

 

(Though why he’d chosen to make the heroine a spirited-yet-underestimated young woman with a spine of steel, rather than a tortured young man who was a writer, was beyond her.)

 

She tells him as much, and he winces.

 

“Was it that obvious?” he asks, voice strained.

 

Molly thinks it over.

 

“Well. No. To be fair I do know a lot about you,” Molly says, hesitant. “So if you’re worried about him reading this book and figuring it out, well, that’s  _ really _ a stretch, isn’t it?”

 

“More importantly,” she continues, on a roll now, “it’s not likely the kind of book he reads, is it? Or is it? I don’t know. But! If he did pick it up, and have suspicions, it wouldn’t be bad at all, would it? He might call. Oh! He might call! And wouldn’t that be wonderful, James? To meet up with him again, after all these years!”

 

Molly clasps her hands together, the beginnings of a plan weaving together in her mind, as she looks at James expectantly.

 

James, for his part, looks downright  _ horrified _ , sinking so far back into the sofa it looks like it’s swallowed him.

 

“No!” he says. “No, I  _ don’t  _ want- that’s  _ terrible- _ I-”

 

“James,” Molly says very sternly, holding his gaze. He flounders, mouth opening and closing fruitlessly.

 

“I am going to help you,” Molly says slowly.

 

He stares at her for a very long moment, then stands abruptly, walking briskly out of the room.

 

Molly blinks, wondering how he still manages to put her off beat when she knows so to expect such mercurial behavior from him. It’s not until she hears the clicking of the stove that she realizes she was probably gearing up to be afraid he’d run out, and is relieved he hasn’t.

 

She gives him a few moments to himself to sort out his thoughts and get a grip on what must have been an avalanche of emotions. Then she follows him into the kitchen.

 

“To be clear,” he says in clear tones, pouring the hot water through the tea strainer, “you mean to  _ help me _ finish the story, correct?”

 

“Yes, James,” Molly says earnestly. “ _ Your _ story.”

 

He glares at her venomously, but passes her a cup and a cut lemon (though he takes milk himself) anyway. 

 

“You mean the book. With  _ Margaret _ ,” he amends, an edge of steel in his soft voice.

 

“Yes, that; Margaret and Michael deserve a beautiful ending. But also you! You and Mycroft Holmes,” Molly says, ignoring the way James chokes on his tea at  _ Mycroft _ ’s name. “He’s Greg’s newest author, did you know? I saw him today, and yesterday, at the office! Just before we had lunch. There really is something elegant, yet dangerous, about him, isn’t there?”

 

James’s hands are on the granite counter, his gaze fixed on his cup of tea.

 

“He doesn’t even remember me,” he bites out. Ah, progress! Not a ‘no’ outright, but feeling out the situation with random, various excuses. Molly mentally scores it a victory.

 

There’s so much they have to discuss - Margaret’s happy ending, the end of the  _ Spider’s Web _ series, the potential spin-off and all that entails. But given the fragile state James seems to be in, one which Molly has  _ never _ seen him in, she has to make a decision.

 

“How about, let’s start with a meeting?” 

 

.

 

Molly marches right up to her colleague and new author as Greg shows him out of his office the next day. It’s just before noon. Perfect.

 

She flips her hair over her shoulder as she reaches out to shake her hand, gratified when she sees his eyes widen just minutely at the move.

 

“Molly Hooper, nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” Molly says. 

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hooper,” he says without missing a beat.

 

Greg grins, albeit just a tad confused. 

 

“Hey, Molly,” he says in good humor. “Not trying to poach my writers now, are you?”

 

Molly gives Mycroft her most charming smile.

 

“Oh? And what is it that you do, Ms. Hooper?” Mycroft asks. Molly takes in the sight and does a sort of happy sigh internally - he really was just like Michael, and oh how she wanted to reunite him with Marg- er, James.

 

“Crime fiction,” Greg says conspiratorially. “She’s the editor of  _ Spider’s Web _ , don’t know if you’ve read it, but even you must have heard of it.”

 

“Ah, yes, in 12 different languages, no less,” Mycroft says, playing up his alleged international reputation no doubt for their amusement. Molly is impressed; he is correct. 

 

Molly laughs. “Yes, if you ever want to turn your spy days into inspiration for a thriller, I’m your gal. But no, I’m here as a fan.”

 

“I told you you were going to be a hit,” Greg says, at Mycroft’s surprise. “Oh excuse me, I have to take this…”

 

To Molly’s delight, Greg nods his goodbyes to the both of them, reminding Mycroft of their next appointment, and bows out. 

 

“Do you have children, Ms. Hooper?” Mycroft asks.

 

“Oh, no, but a goddaughter - she’s two, and the most adorable little girl, really, I’m smitten, though I have no idea how to handle children!” she lies, walking with him to the elevator. “Actually it’s that that I wondered if I could seek your advice - your niece, which you wrote the  _ Rosamund _ series for, what is she like? Oh sorry, it’s a huge imposition, isn’t it? Could I buy you lunch, Mr. Holmes?”

 

His hand nearly slips getting the elevator button, and Molly thinks she’s a bit smooth, if she does say so herself. Mycroft turns to her, startled into a little laugh, and agrees to lunch.

 

.

 

James stares out from behind the giant potted plant, eyes wide, unable to move. Oh, God, it’s like watching a car wreck. He can’t pull himself away.

 

There she is, Molly Hooper - no,  _ Margaret Heartly _ \- charming the pants off Mycroft Holmes. James winces at the insinuation. 

 

They’re sitting at a cozy little table near the front of the restaurant, with a good view of the window, and an empty table beside them from which he knows Molly plans to repurpose one of those empty chairs. 

 

She’d called, asking him to meet her here a quarter past noon, 

 

He’d gotten suspicious, and came an hour early to hide out where she wouldn’t see him. And he had been right to do so: the terrible woman had walked in, at noon, with Mycroft Holmes.

 

So this was what she meant to do, lure him in thinking it was a nice lunch with his editor, but instead spring his university crush on him in a spot where he couldn’t get away. He sees what she had set up now - from outside the restaurant, through the window, passersby could only see Molly. 

 

But once you’re in through the doors, you were in full view of both parties at that table and unable to hide. Damn her and her intimate knowledge of every eatery within five blocks of her office!

 

And then, undoubtedly, once she saw him, she’d feign surprise. Oh yes, what a delightful coincidence, blah, blah. She’d invite him to sit, and James would do so, mortified to be caught unawares in the presence of the love of his li- no. 

 

But oh, once he  _ had  _ sat down she would fake some silly excuse, a scheduled phone call perhaps, and duck out, leaving the two of them to “get reacquainted.” As if this were couple’s counseling!

 

James grits his teeth, half angry at the fact that his narrative-oriented mind is already mentalling penning a novel about a couple who decide to repair their marriage at via a guided resort package, only to end up falling in love with completely different people during the trip. 

 

Well. There’s no way he can go there  _ now.  _ And he doesn’t want to, not in the least! He is not prepared to face Mycroft Holmes now, and he doesn’t think he will ever be. Let lost loves lie. 

 

He most certainly does  _ not _ want Mycroft Holmes to know that twelve years after he kissed him, James still can’t stop thinking about it. How mortifying.

 

And how misleading! He certainly has no plans to pursue a relationship with this man, this firstborn Holmes, who is for certain meant to marry a cultured woman of good standing and have little Holmes babies and perhaps a career in politics where he appears in the tabloids once every 16 months. 

 

No, James had buried any thought of being  _ anything _ to Mycroft Holmes a very long time ago. And now he intends to sneak out through the kitchens. 

 

And, well, watching Mycroft and Molly laughing over swordfish or whatever it was they were discussing (he’s valiantly refrained from reading lips, for fear of picking up his own name) - it’s better than he ever hoped for.

 

They look like they’re genuinely enjoying each other’s company.

 

If he doesn’t show up, it’s a date!

 

It’s - as wonderful as he could have possibly planned it, really. James finds himself smiling just the tiniest bit, before he bites down on his lip so as to not get carried away. He’s never been the type who thought of his writing as something to influence the real world with, but this, this was magic spilling off the pages. 

 

He buries his face in his hands. The Holmes-Hooper children would be adorable! Whip smart and noses cute as anything no matter whose they inherited. James needs to go home now, and scream at a wall. He hopes they invite him to their wedding. Yes, yes, he would be ready to see Mycroft Holmes again, if it was at his and Molly Hooper’s wedding. Molly could roll with the punches. She could handle being a politician’s wife, if that’s what he turned out to be. 

 

James nearly knocks the sous chef over, sprinting for the doors.

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Molly covers her smile belatedly with her napkin, remembering that this is not a date.

 

James has not answered a single text, and Molly has already glanced at her phone more times than she is comfortable with in the presence of this beautiful man so full of wit and charm. Heaven forbid he think he bores her - so engrossed in their shared meal is Molly that she nearly suggests they split dessert. At lunch! At a bistro two blocks from her office! Where they were supposed to meet  _ James. _

 

She gives the restaurant one last look-around, failing to spot him hiding out behind a menu somewhere, or disguised as a waiter. 

 

Their time is up. Conversation had (completely absorbing, ranging from toddlers to fiction to how Molly got her start in publishing and Mycroft’s apparently nutty family before Molly remembers she should be probing for hints that he remembers James) and meal finished (swordfish with the most perfect lemon sauce on a colorful bed of grains and fresh salsa), there is nothing left for Molly to do but to part ways with Mycroft Holmes.

 

She reigns in a longing sigh, and they walk together to the door.

 

“You must let me treat you the next time,” he says, with a quirk of an eyebrow that distracts Molly enough that she agrees before she realizes what she’s doing. 

 

Then he gets into a cab, and she turns to walk back to her office.

 

“Shit,” she says.

 

.

 

Molly holds her phone in her hand, thumb hovering over James’s name in her contacts. 

 

She should text him. She really should. 

 

She even had an excuse made, this morning, about asking him to lunch as an apology for trying to trick him into lunch with Mycroft Holmes, which was no doubt the source of his radio silence the past three days since her not-a-date with Mycroft Holmes herself. 

 

She needed to salvage this situation somehow, and she fully intended to do that by tricking James into yet another surprise date with Mycroft Holmes.

 

She tucks the phone away, going for a smile instead. 

 

Mycroft looks elegant as ever stepping out of his car, with his great coat to fend off the early autumn chill, the vivid purple of his tie peeking through. Molly suspects, if she were a character in James’s latest ( _ unfinished)  _ novel, she might swoon. 

 

He walks up to her and takes her hand. Molly thinks for a second he might kiss it, but he just holds it there, warming it between his own, and she thinks that’s even better.

 

“Shall we go inside?” he asks. She nods. 

 

.

 

“I hope I didn’t make you wait,” he murmurs, voice full of apology, as they are shown their seats.

 

Molly takes in the establishment, looking carefully at the other diners and taking in the atmosphere. People-watching is a hobby of hers, and one quite hard to turn off. This restaurant was just outside her work-zone radius; she’d passed it, once or twice, but it was a bit out of the way for work lunches or reading dinners, and so she’d never been inside.

 

“Oh no, you’re punctual to the dot, and we’d just arrived at the same time,” Molly says honestly. He grants her another one of those understanding little smiles as he gets her chair.

 

“So,” Molly says, leaning forward into her hand. “I need to ask - were you really a spy?”

 

She realizes as the words spill out of her mouth that perhaps this is a little forward. But she doesn’t much mind, and it’s not as if she can take it back. Besides, she really is very curious, and knows the question would be written all over her face in any case.

 

And, she thinks, it is her right as James’s trusted friend to be nosy about any soon-to-be significant others.

 

He sets down his menu, looking amused but not put out. 

 

“No,” Mycroft says.

 

“Aha - but that’s what you  _ would _ say if you were a spy, isn’t it?” Molly says, nodding at her own logic.

 

“True, I suppose,” Mycroft muses, and for a second Molly thinks he is about to reveal something. “You would know better than I might, having edited a number of award winning espionage thrillers yourself. I cannot claim to have ever been an editor either.”

 

Molly smiles, remember their lovely discussion of reading habits just the other day. She’d guessed with striking accuracy that he’d read biographies and memoirs on the regular, and he’d winced at his predictability, confessing to a secret stash of rather surrealistic novels he wished he had more time for.

 

Then she narrows her eyes, trying to get a better read on this mysterious person. Does he know, perhaps, that she has interviewed former high-ranking MI6 personnel while working on three books, one of them James’s? 

 

And did it matter?

 

He looks perfectly modest, even a bit secretly shy, as he gives the menu a last look and glances back up at her. Molly marvels at how a man of his stature can manage the under-your-eyelashes look to someone her height. Her mind inches toward a Bond-esque seduction scene - across the ballroom, martini in hand, and all that.

 

“I must confess up front, I am afraid I’m not nearly as interesting as you might have expected of me,” Mycroft says. He nudges his flatware a millimeter this way and that, aligning them perfectly when they were only off imperceptibly to the untrained eye anyway. 

 

“I did work at an embassy, and was overseas for a number of years, but there was nothing 007 about it, I assure you,” Mycroft continues. 

 

He says this so earnestly that Molly wonders what he looks like when he lies. Oh, what an interesting puzzle to crack. 

 

But then a quiet moment follows, and in that bubble of silence it feels as if Mycroft is about to reveal something true.

 

“I am flattered, and gratified, in any case, that you allowed me to take you out to lunch again,” he says. 

 

“Oh, I’m sure you have  _ lots _ of people interested in you,” Molly says, maybe a little too loudly, to her own ears, in an effort to cover her uncalled for embarrassment. Her face heats, a little. This is meant to be recon for James, not- not a date. 

 

The waiter taking their orders brings Molly a brief respite, but she’s just as soon distracted again.

 

“I suppose interest  _ is  _ key,” Mycroft taps his bottom lip, just once, and Molly finds herself staring. “It’s the driving force,” he says, “perhaps of life itself.”

 

“Enough interest can sustain anything; such is the source of the greatest of human endeavors,” Mycroft says. He fidgets, a bit, toying with his watch. Molly wonders who he’s thinking of, with this philosophical critique of his.

 

“But I- I enjoy stability. That is crucial too, is it not? Toward leaving legacies that outlive ourselves.” Mycroft blinks, coming out of his little musing, and Molly realizes that  _ that _ is what he looks like when he’s embarrassed. Not the coy looks and downcast glances, no, those were practiced confidence. This airy moment of his is a revelation. He smiles, to cover for it.

 

“I think compatibility is important too,” Molly says, reassuringly. It is a mistake, because now the two of them are definitely having a moment, and they shouldn’t. They really shouldn’t be. 

 

Now she sits, across the table from the man she knows James has held a torch for for over a decade, with the knowledge that he, too, just wants to feel safe with someone. It is humanizing, this knowledge. Molly thinks she should feel like she is intruding, here, instead of this warmth blooming inside of her.

 

“I think it’s important to be like for who you are,” Molly continues. “Just to be liked. And not because you’ve done something extraordinary, or because there’s some great mystery about it. It would…hurt, I think, to not allow yourself to be comfortable with someone whose affections you seek.”

 

“That’s very honest,” Mycroft says.

 

“Part of the job, maybe,” she says with a shrug. “It’s also who I am.”

 

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. Emotional honesty is truly a skill,” Mycroft says. “And skills require upkeep.”

 

Molly smiles, wide, unable to help herself, as she brings up another topic of interest.

 

“Careful there, I’m inclined to start asking about exes already,” she says.

 

“You’re a gossip,” he admonishes in jest. “Second date and prying into all the skeletons in my closet already.”

 

“Oh, they exist, then? And the not-as-interesting-as-you-think excuse won’t work here; one doesn’t need to be James Bond to have had a noteworthy love life.”

 

“I sincerely doubt James Bond has had an interesting love life…”

 

“Dodging the question, I see. I’ll allow it - you’re right, it’s no good to pry.”

 

“Thank you,” Mycroft says with mock modesty.

 

“And to make it up to you - ask me anything,” Molly adds magnanimously. 

 

.

 

Whatever it is Molly says, it’s hilarious, clearly, because Mycroft looks at her with a laugh and a smile, as if she’s the sun.

 

James worries, briefly, that he is becoming a stalker. He shakes the notion off immediately, resuming his spying on his best friend and editor, and his aforementioned crush from roughly a decade ago. 

 

This is Mycroft Holmes’s fault. Clearly. Because the last time James exhibited such behavior was his second year at university where he would freeze immediately upon the entrance of said Holmes, and escape toward where he had a better vantage point to see but not be seen. 

 

He’s gotten quite good at it, is what he’s getting at. Molly has no idea he’s tagged along for this second date of hers.

 

James orders a little meringue thing, and wonders whether he’s gone unnoticed because his disguise is just  _ that good _ , or if it’s because Molly is so engrossed in her date with Mycroft Holmes. He’s not sure which one he wants it to be more.

 

The date is going swimmingly. He should be ecstatic. He  _ is _ really pleased with the outcome. 

 

James watches the two of them stand and leave the restaurant, and then finishes the dredges of his coffee and gets up himself. 

 

The drooping sun is warm and gold despite the biting chill of the air as the day descends all too quickly into evening. James pulls on his gloves and then, in a fit of optimism, pulls off his wig. And the glasses. He even rubs the little concealer-drawn wrinkles, and gone is the little old lady dining alone - behold! James Moriarty.

 

It’s a stupid move. A  _ classic  _ mistake. Had his head not been so turned by the return of Mycroft Holmes, he would’ve known that.

 

“James?”

 

The voice is tentative, inquiring, and the same one that haunts him in his sleep (well, daymares, more like).

 

James freezes in his tracks when he really should be sprinting, and in that moment of hesitation, Mycroft Holmes, who had for whatever reason still been in his car rather than having been driven off the opposite direction Molly walked away in, had spotted James outside the restaurant and walked around to face him. 

 

It’s mortifying enough to come face to face with him after all these years - but James’s horror is magnified tenfold, what with the wig in his hands and the ugly shoes his coat can’t cover.

 

Mycroft sees them too; James watches as he looks right at them, then ignores them out of his never-failing politeness, and gives James a small smile.

 

“I thought that was you,” Mycroft says, eyes crinkling ever so slightly, as if he was  _ actually _ happy to see him.

 

James isn’t sure if that sound he’s making, like a dying seal, is in his head or not. The other, little sound in his head is a voice, blaming Mycroft. Damn his twelve-year absence! James has gotten rusty.

 

“I-” James freezes in the sureness that it must be too late to pretend he doesn’t have any idea who this man is. The recognition must be clear on his face. 

 

“Oh my God,” is what he settles for instead. 

 

“James Moriarty, who argued he could draw out calculations to send a missile to the Andromeda,” says Mycroft. “What are you up to now?” 

 

James  _ wishes _ he was a galaxy over. Damn his aborted hobbies. He mumbles something unintelligible. 

 

“I’m sorry?” 

 

He mumbles something else entirely unintelligible, albeit a tad louder, and Mycroft just furrows his brows, straining to hear. He resigns to confusion, then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Aha! Distraction.

 

“I’d love to catch up sometime if-”

 

Mycroft looks up from his phone, but in that single moment James had seized the opportunity to run away, and is now a little dot at the end of the block, sprinting through traffic for his dear life. 

 

.

 

Molly flips open the tiny paper card for the 20th time in three minutes. She cannot, for the love of God, stop  _ smiling. _

 

She’d come to work three mornings after her second not-date to find a small, tasteful bunch of flowers, complete with vase and a little packet of plant food. It’s perfect for her office, and surreptitiously matches the accents on her cardigan.

 

_ I had a lovely time.  _

_ MH _

 

They’re from Mycroft Holmes.

 

Were they roses, or a bouquet any larger than the current design, Molly would have been worried things were spiraling out of control. But this was...tasteful. It was nice. It gave her this bubbly little feeling she equated somewhat with whimsy.

 

She glances at her phone. 

 

Because really, she can call it whatever she likes, but it begs the question: Is Molly dating James’s ex-whatever? 

 

She picks up the phone, to thank Mycroft for the flowers. 

 

It lights up a moment later, with a notification of a new text. 

 

_ I must confess an ulterior motive: There is a new establishment, something ghastly - an oxygen bar, I think. _

 

And then another. 

 

_ My brother has put me on their guest list in order to bow out himself, meaning I won’t be able to. I’ll only need to make an appearance, half an hour tops. I don’t think I can bear it alone.  _

 

_ Please accompany me? _

 

It’s quite a long explanation. Molly knows she’s smiling like a fool at her phone. 

 

_ I can promise, afterwards, the best risotto you’ve ever tasted in return for this tremendous undertaking. In addition to my unending gratitude, of course.  _

 

Molly hesitates.

 

.

 

The date is amazing.

 

Molly feels lightheaded as she twirls around on the sidewalk, not sure if it’s from the oxygen (ridiculous, that was hours ago) or her company, and she nearly forgets that this is  _ not a date _ and invites the man up.

 

She stops short at the bottom of the stairs, catching herself and schooling her expression before she turns around. She smiles up at Mycroft with an easy confidence that belies her thudding heart.

 

“I had a great time,” Molly says. It helps that this is not a lie. “You were right about the risotto, and the walk.”

 

He takes her hand and returns the fond look. “I had a wonderful time as well.”

 

She stifles a yawn and feigns a slight, swaying misstep. 

 

“We should do this again, sometime,” Molly says. It’s a dismissal. “I’ll see you?”

 

“I’d love to.”

 

He gives her a kiss on the cheek, and that’s it. She starts up the stairs to her door, looking back more times than she’d like to admit, but oh, that sight, that expression. She just wants to stare at it; it’s such a pity to go.

 

Finally, she’s made it up all five steps to the door. She looks over her shoulder, one last time, and smiles. He watches, and bids her goodnight. Molly sighs happily as she walks inside, and can’t help but peek out the viewer of her door to get a last glimpse of Mycroft Holmes.

 

Then she bends down to wrangle with the buckles on her shoes to kick them off, and sighs heavily as she flips on the light. She just wants to collapse into bed now.

 

“Hello, Molly.”

 

She screams. 

 

Sitting in her living room, on the sofa,  _ in the dark _ , is James Moriarty. He wears a stormy expression and - oh, good he took his shoes off - and, and, he’s just been  _ waiting there _ like some sort of  _ serial killer _ .

 

“For goodness sakes!” Molly yells, leaning down to pick up the mass of fur that’s sprinted toward her at the sound of her voice. She holds her cat to her chest as she stares at James, equal parts confused and startled with his untimely appearance.

 

A tiny part of her feels a little guilty.

 

The larger part of her stomps it out with indigance.

 

“How did you get in?!” she asks.

 

“I have a copy of your key,” he says, as if that were obvious. It’s not! He shouldn’t have a copy! Should he? She honestly can’t remember.

 

James watches her, like a disappointed parent who’s caught their teenager sneaking back in after curfew.

 

Molly opens her mouth to explain. Then she shuts it. What does she have to explain, when he’s the one breaking in!

 

She stares back.

 

James clears his throat.

 

“So it’s true then, you two are dating?” he asks, voice soft and deceptively normal. James sounds normal, but Molly thinks he’s hiding something. It wouldn’t take a genius to realize that - he’s broken into her house! Past midnight! And who knows how long he’s been waiting there?

 

Molly walks over to sit next to him on the sofa, heaving a great sigh.

 

“James,” she says. “What the hell are you doing here? It’s late. I was going to go to bed.”

 

“It was the only place I could risk it,” James says, shifting to face her on the couch. They make grumpy faces at each other until James looks away, scratching a spot on his knee.

 

“I didn’t want to risk seeing him,” he says.

 

Molly rolls her eyes.

 

“You’re being  _ ridiculous _ ,” she says. “Thank goodness I’m here to help you! Now, it didn’t work the first time, but I’m sure it will still work. What about Thursday? He’s meeting Greg about his book in the office about translating  _ Rosie _ into Japanese, and you should come in for a meeting too. God knows that’s long overdue. We’ll orchestrate some way for you two to bump into each other-”

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait, waitwait, what?” James says, holding his hands up. 

 

“What?”

 

“You can’t seriously still be on about trying to set us up!”

 

“Well, of  _ course _ I am! Why else do you think I’ve been seeing him!”

 

“To date him! For yourself!”

 

“For- for  _ myself! _ ” Molly thinks she is turning red. “I’m doing this for  _ you! _ ”

 

“I never asked you to!” James shrinks back in his seat, color rising and suddenly defensive. 

 

“And yet, because I  _ care- _ ”

 

“What, about me? Really?  _ Really?  _ Are you helping me, or, or are you helping  _ yourself _ to him you- you traitor!” He covers his mouth with his hand. He doesn’t know where that came from.

 

“Excuse me?” It’s everything Molly feared. “After I- how dare-”

 

Molly stands from her seat, dropping the cat unceremoniously and starting to pace. “Before I’d offered to help, you’d practically resigned yourself to a life without Mycroft Holmes!”

 

“I still don’t have Mycroft Holmes!”

 

“Now you have an excuse! Now you have an, an introduction, and a connection - You’re technically coworkers, twice removed. We’re practically friends, and, and-” Molly pacing up a storm, wringing her hands. She looks ridiculous. James sees it. She does too. Molly looks at him helplessly. James stares back, terrified he’s ruined their fragile friendship.

 

It’s a long moment.

 

“I think we could use a drink,” Molly finally says. He nods.

 

.

 

Mycroft waits right where he is on the pavement until she’s closed the door, safely in her home. 

 

He finds he doesn’t yet want to put away the tiny smile on his face. He lingers another moment, and then her lights turn on. He pauses, practically mid-step, out of curiosity. Her living room. He’ll have to make a suggestion regarding those curtains, a replacement for the sheer layer to better diffuse light from the inside out. 

 

He frowns.

 

There is a man in her house, and he knew Molly to be living alone. He is about to go up the steps when-

 

Ah.

 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

 

He thinks he recognizes the man. And it’s clear Molly does too, as she moves across the room to sit with him. On him? He can’t tell from where he’s standing.

 

But this…this is. Interesting. 

 

.

 

James clasps his mimosa with both hands, eyes staring unseeing through his shades.

 

Molly, on the other hand, just tosses hers back.

 

“Why did we get outdoor seats?” James whispers. “There are so many people.”

 

“Keep drinking,” she says, “and the hangover won’t catch up.”

 

“That’s not how it works,” he whispers. He downs it anyway.

 

Last night had been...unproductive, to put it nicely.

 

There had been a lot of tears, and wine, and moping and pining. They weren’t even the cathartic kind of tears. Sure, there were some drunken apologies and sure, they were still friends, but really most of the crying and things said were things like “his fur is so soft!” and “how many coins do you think he’ll let us put on his belly until he gets fed up?” and James thought he should maybe look into getting a cat, if they were all such patient companions as Molly’s. Likely not; he guesses Toby is an anomaly. 

 

They’d both been in such sorry states the next morning that Molly insisted they go out for brunch. Nothing to kick you into gear like going out and being Real People. Good advice, technically. But ugh.

 

With great effort, he pulls off his shades, and forces himself to look at her face. Her hair’s still a bit mussed, he knows, but she’s tied a scarf around it and put it in some sort of twirly thing that really does look quite chic. 

 

She truly looks like she’s just woken up, and is currently devouring eggs with much gusto. James thinks it would not be inaccurate to describe her as beautiful. 

 

He hides his smile by taking a bite of his French toast.

 

“Thanks,” he says. He doesn’t say what for, because he doesn’t really know. Putting up with him for all these years maybe. Making all that effort, even when it had nothing to do with the books. He’d known that, for years, but he supposes he’s never really properly said it.

 

She just smiles, quick and easy, like it’s nothing. He thinks she understands, anyway. And maybe to her, it truly is nothing.

 

“What a fortunate coincidence.”

 

James freezes, eyes wide, and mechanically inches his head clockwise and upward, until his eyes confirm what his ears refuse to believe: the voice belong to Mycroft Holmes. 

 

Mycroft Holmes, who is smiling his barely-there smile at him, at  _ him and Molly _ , before gesturing to the empty chair beside their table in question.

 

James isn’t sure whether Molly nods or says something but then Mycroft is pulling the chair over and taking a seat and James  _ cannot _ for the love of  _ anything _ move a single millimeter. His limbs have become lead and there is nothing he can do but watch.

 

Mycroft sits, and folds his hands before him, and oh God, those leather gloves. He greets Molly. He greets James. He says  _ something _ but the words don’t really register because he is close enough that Jim can scoot in his chair ever so slightly and  _ brush his knee _ . He is close enough to touch and James cannot breathe. 

 

“I have to admit, the discovery threw me,” he says, quickly, in a rush of breath. He looks a bit bashful, almost, eyes trained on his hands and only flicking up every so often to read his or Molly’s expressions. “It was...unexpected.”

 

“But not unwelcome,” he quickly adds. “I found myself thinking about it; I confess it kept me up the better part of the night, and if I am being honest, part of it was...excitement.”

 

Mycroft gnaws his lip, just for a moment, and James stares. They both stare. James is sure Molly is doing better at covering her shock; he manages a quick look at her, and she’s trying with some difficulty to contain a smile. James frowns.

 

“I don’t get emotionally...involved often. But when I do it, I tend to take it rather seriously. So I don’t say this lightly, but I have decided. The situation is unique, but once I realized I had made up my mind I wanted to tell you,” Mycroft continues. James checks back into the conversation, and realizes he’s not sure who Mycroft is talking to, or what about.

 

“I understand you’re a couple,” Mycroft says carefully. “And you have already been together, perhaps for years. And that I would be joining something already in place.”

 

“I’d like to,” he says. “You’re looking for a third in your relationship, and I would like to try it - this - the three of us.”

 

A deafening silence fills James’s ears, and then he lets out a breath as if he’d taken a blow to the gut. 

 

But it’s Molly’s gasp that Mycroft turns toward, which is just as well, because James isn’t sure what his face looks like right now.

 

“Oh. Oh! Mycroft,” Molly’s voice goes from terribly loud to the softest little whisper. Her eyes are wide and her mouth is stumbling over some explanation that won’t come out. She looks like she’s apologizing. James’s gut clenches; he knows this is going to go all wrong.

 

“We,” she starts, then bites her lips. Why does she look like that? Molly looks like she’s about to cry.

 

“We’re not,” James cuts in, firmly, eyes stuck on Molly. He can’t bear to look at Mycroft. His cheeks are flushed and his brain catches up and he realizes  _ oh God, is that what he’s into? If only James were so lucky. _ But they’re not. He and Molly aren’t a couple. How could someone as insightful as Mycroft Holmes have missed that?

 

Molly looks positively shell shocked as he says that, and he finds himself reaching out for her hand. He stops. Is Mycroft leaving? Does Mycroft not want Molly if it’s just her? That’s not right, the smartest man in the world wouldn’t decide something so stupid.

 

But he is. 

 

Mycroft Holmes is pushing his chair back, looking at neither of them. His face falls, a bit, as he moves to leave.

 

“I see,” he says, voice soft, and on its way to its normally hardened edge. “I was mistaken, and I’m afraid I’ve embarrassed myself. Thinking that… nevermind. I’ll take my leave now. My apologies for disturbing you.”

 

He turns and leaves so much quicker than they’re ready for.

 

James feels a pressure on the hand he’d pulled back, and looks down to see Molly gripping it for dear life. He turns to see her staring at him with wild eyes and flushed cheeks.

 

It takes another moment for James to register it too.

 

“What the hell just happened,” he whispers.

 

“Fuck,” she says. “We blew it.”

 

.

 

The rest of brunch happens in silence and is over quickly. The two of them part ways abruptly, heading off in opposite directions, eager to suffer their confusion alone. 

 

James goes home, and once he’s through the doors, promptly runs for his bedroom and screams into a pillow. 

 

Molly takes the scenic route, and meanders through a park where she can spy on happy couples young and old alike. There aren’t  _ many _ but there are some, and Molly is drawn to them like she always in, a heat-seeking missile locking in on the one senior aged couple out of a hundred souls, or the necking teenagers running off to find a secluded nook or cranny. 

 

Mycroft has given her a lot to think about.

 

She thinks about James. And his butt.

 

She thinks about Mycroft’s shocking assumption, straight out of the blue. Had he seen, perhaps, something Molly hadn’t, or hadn’t let herself see, between her and James?

 

Did she like James, in that way?

 

That he automatically assumed they were a couple. 

 

She likes James, yes. Is she attracted to James? 

 

She thinks about his dark eyes and the way he’d looked at her on her couch just yesterday, matching her scowl for scowl as they’d put their heads against the cushions.  She thinks about how, as they crouched on the carpet watching Toby, he’d put his chin up on his forearms, and how scratchy his stubble must feel. And how you couldn’t tell when he dressed up, but his biceps were actually quite impressive. At least she thought so. And yes, maybe she did stare at his backside, when he got up to get the dish full of change off the shelf so they could place coins on Toby for whatever godforsaken reason they’d come up with when they were drunk off their asses. 

 

Her cat was a saint, sometimes.

 

Molly fishes out her phone and scrolls through her contacts. She thinks if she texts James, he won’t answer, because he usually doesn’t answer, and well, that won’t help her much at all.

 

And maybe it’s too soon, and he’s still thinking it over. She takes a seat on a bench that’s just been freed up, and finds she doesn’t like it at all. It has a spectacular view of the murky waters, but she can’t really see the people from this direction at all.

 

She types out a text.  _ Come out and let’s talk. _ No, it’s not too soon. It’s been five, six, seven years maybe, at least. They’ve worked longer. And it wasn’t instant. But they’ve long since become friends, and very close friends, and even maybe more than that.

 

And it’s about time they all stopped just  _ waiting. _

 

.

 

James fiddles with his silverware. He’s wearing a really nice jacket. His hair is quite unlike the usual mess it’s in. He’s even put a tremendous effort into shaving, and Molly wants to lean into the aftershave.

 

“Yeah, this isn’t working,” she says with a sigh, picking up her purse. He looks up in alarm.

 

She stands, and shakes her head at him. “You look like you’re so uncomfortable you’re about to  _ cry _ .”

 

She holds out her hand. “Let’s go, we can go back to my place and we can make plain ol’ pasta and play with Toby,” she says.

 

He takes her hand and follows her out, then narrows his eyes at her as they start down the pavement and half-heartedly try to hail a cab.

 

“Molly Hooper, are you inviting me back on the  _ first date _ ?”

 

She gives him a stern look, and he grins. She can’t keep it up much longer after that; the return of his self-assured demeanor puts her at ease.

 

“You know very well that no funny business is going to happen,” she admonishes. He nods solemnly, opening the door for her to the cab that finally pulls over.

 

.

 

Molly groans, collapsing back onto a pillow, her head still swimming with bliss. James follows a moment later, nipping at her collarbone, before turning onto his side.

 

Pasta was a bust. They boiled water until it ran over, and dropped the dry noodles, which were still scattered all over the kitchen floor, and goodness, she’d never thought she’d be grateful for that oversized dining table.

 

Molly cracks open an eye to look at him.

 

“I guess when you’re close as thieves and have the kind of relationship where you’d kill for each other and have for years, when you finally switch the setting to ‘romantic’, things tend to boil over,” she says. 

 

He nods solemnly.

 

She snorts. As if he knew any better. 

 

.

 

Mycroft doesn’t come into it, for another two, three days. 

 

They’re cuddled on the couch, watching a movie together, when he drifts back into her thoughts. Molly marvels, not for the first time, at the idea that James’s long-lost love is what finally drove them together.

 

“Isn’t it crazy?” she asks him. He nods, absentmindedly. Molly sighs. “Mycroft Holmes, the one that got away.”

 

James tilts his head, peers at her curiously. 

 

“He’s always so, so composed,” she muses. “So...untouchable. Even when he came over and basically proposed a threesome in broad daylight in the middle of brunch.”

 

“HOW is it possible that is so unaffected?” Molly says, wonder clear in her voice. 

 

“It’s like- like- it must be against the Geneva Convention.” Molly shakes her head.

 

“Yeah, that’s not what that is,” James says slowly, gaze flickering between the movie and Molly. He narrows his eyes, hesitating.

 

“It’s strange,” Molly says, grasping for the right words. “He’s not classically beautiful per se, but made up of so many interesting little quirks and gestures that I find myself unable to stop looking.”

 

“It’s irresistible, isn’t it?” James finally says, not looking at her. 

 

“There we go!”

 

“Like he looks at you, and suddenly he’s the only thing you want to look at. Nothing else matters.”

 

“Yes! That! He does that thing where he looks at you, and you forget what you were thinking!”

 

“That’s it,” James mutters. 

 

“There’s only one thing we can do,” Molly says, nodding sagely.

 

“We have to kill him.”

 

“...date him, James! I was going to say date him! Christ!”

 

James glances at her skeptically, then resolutely turns away. Molly squeezes their interlocked hands, and lowers her voice to something gentle.

 

“You still love him, don’t you?”

 

He’s not looking at her, but he’s not really watching the movie anymore either.

 

“It’s alright James, and it doesn’t mean you care for me any less,” she says, with a comforting pat to the back of his hand.

 

His expression is blank, but Molly can tell he’s terrified.

 

“It’s alright,” she says. “We don’t have to do anything about it right now.

 

.

 

Jim drops his head back into the pillow heavily.

 

“We only kissed once,” he says. There's no question who they're talking about. Molly grins. 

 

“Do tell.”

 

“It was at a party.” He stops so he can give her a  _ look.  _ “No, not like that.”

 

“It was New Year's Eve and it was midnight and we were somehow together, alone.” 

 

Molly interrupts, dry. “Oh my,  what a stroke of luck, a complete accident, I'm sure.”

 

James flushes.

 

“So the clock chimes, and I remember him looking out the window before he looked at me. Then he just. He leaned down so slowly, and kissed me. Then he said,”

 

He shifts to turn on his side, and Molly holds her breath. He looks at her and says, quietly, an impression almost.

 

“‘Happy new year, James.’”

 

Molly squeals with laughter, kicking her feet, and James groans as he covers his face with his hands. 

 

“I know!”

 

“What did you say!”

 

“Nothing! I was torn being mortified at getting so worked up over a new year's kiss and being secretly ecstatic he even knew my name! I thought I was having a heart attack!”

 

“Oh,  _ James.” _  Molly is going to cry, with how hard it is to breathe, from such laughter.

 

“You can't  _ imagine _ how much embarrassment it causes whenever I think of it.”

 

“Think of it often, do you?”

 

“Shut up, please shut up.”

 

They're quiet for a moment. 

 

“And so you see, I couldn’t possibly date him. I’ve romanticized it for ages, there’s no way I can even handle a proper conversation with the man. And then if he doesn’t live up to my rosy memories, I’ll be crushed, won’t I?”

 

“You mean if he’s not as gentlemanly and charming as we thought?” Molly gasps, wiping tears from her eyes. “How will we ever survive.”

 

James kicks at her half-heartedly, and she kicks back. Then he shifts.

 

“Do  _ you _ want to date him?” James asks, big eyes peering out at her despite the fluffy pillow nearly eating his face. Molly shifts too, but the cloud-like pillows only further obscures her view. Damn his Instagram-perfect rooms.

 

“I think he’s gorgeous and interesting,” she says. Now that she's gotten to know him a bit, it didn't seem right to add ‘mysterious’ to the list anymore, but he was no less appealing for it.

 

And, truly, there is still much she feels she has to uncover in regards to Mycroft Holmes.

 

“And well, as long as we’re being honest, I’m still kicking myself a bit for letting him get away that day,” she says frankly. 

 

James lowers his gaze. “And what if it goes wrong?”

 

Molly shifts, again, with more gusto this time so as to really make a dent, and presses a kiss to his bare shoulder.

 

“Then we still have each other.”

 

.

 

They hadn’t talked about it again since, but a week after such tacit agreement, Molly and James are walking through a park when they see it - when they see  _ him _ , Mycroft Holmes, sitting on a park bench, a mass of pink on his knee.

 

Molly gasps, but James is the one who nearly crushes her hand in his, as they take in the sight.

 

“That’s not  _ fair,” _ Molly grits out under her breath. James nods in agreement, the sentiment conveyed equally in his expression.

 

They find their feet betraying their good trust, as they end up standing just a ways from Mycroft, his adorable niece, and the birds they were feeding in just a few short moments.

 

“Oh, good morning,” Mycroft says cordially, like they hadn’t just two weeks ago all made fools of themselves. 

 

He ducks his head to address the little girl, who looks every bit as posh as he does. “This is Miss Molly Hooper, who works at the publishing house we passed, yes, the one printing all those books for you. And this is Mister James Moriarty; he is an author, which means he writes books. Rosie, what do we say?”

 

“Hello!” she replies instantly, granting each of them a sunny smile, and a toss of breadcrumbs. “I am Rosie, and I am three! I feed birds.”

 

In her tiny, pink pea coat with checkered detailing and a scalloped collar, and shiny, buckled shoes, she looks like miniature royalty. There is a cute little hat to match, and her dark curls poke out just enough to frame her heart-shaped face. Molly thinks the two of them look something out of a designer catalogue. She wants to weep at the beauty of it all. 

 

“Hi,” James manages, and he sounds so breathless Molly suspects it’s because he’s forgotten to breathe the entire twenty steps it took to get here.

 

“Do you want to get lunch sometime this week?” Molly blurts out. “How about Wednesday? We should talk.”

 

Mycroft hesitates. Then he lowers his gaze, watching the little pink girl hop after birds. 

 

“I’ll should have some time this week,” he says. “I’ll have my assistant contact you to confirm.”

 

Molly nods, and James startles at the fact that she’s stunned speechless. They say their goodbyes and he leans in to whisper as they walk away, “that’s not a no.”

 

She looks at him in surprise.

 

.

 

Mycroft’s chosen a hotel restaurant, a bit early to avoid the dinner rush, where they have a table on the terrace. So early, in fact, that the place is practically empty. 

 

When Molly and James arrive, Mycroft is already seated, staring out over the city as the sky morphs into a warm watercolor painting. 

 

They stop and turn to each other. They couldn’t see it before, but it’s obvious. He’s just as afraid as they are.

 

He’s only startled out of his little quiet moment when James silently takes the seat beside him. James takes a deep breath and places his hands, deceptively steady, on the table.

 

“Hi,” he says. Again. But he’s mustered up the resolve to look at him this time, really look at him.

 

“James,” Mycroft says, a small polite smile that falters away easily into uncertainty. “It’s good to see you again.”

 

“It is,” James agrees. “Really good. I didn’t forget about you, I was just startled.”

 

“And- I’m sorry, about the um, the-”

 

“Running off?”

 

“Ehm. Yes, that too, yes. But also brunch. That’s what I wanted to start with, we’re sorry for that, because we were very drunk, and very shocked,” James says with the kind of elegance that does not betray his skill as a writer. Mycroft quirks his lips, wry.

 

“Yes, I understand how that must have come across as a shock,” Mycroft says drily. “But you needn’t try to smooth things over, James, I will do my very best not to remain hung up about either of you.”

 

James resolutely does not pout at the interruption but ends up doing this thing that puffs out his cheeks like a pufferfish for a moment, then stares at Mycroft like he’s an idiot. Here he is,  _ sulking! _ And James still thinks he’s the most gorgeous sight he’s ever seen. He’s mental, clearly. 

 

“We weren’t a couple,” James says slowly. “We had had too much wine and were trying to offset them with mimosas while nursing our wounded egos. And we’d had years of practice bundling up our feelings until  _ you _ came along and mucked everything up!”

 

Mycroft blinks, taken aback, and ready to be all insulted and defensive, when Molly takes the seat opposite James, and places a hand on Mycroft’s arm.

 

“Two minutes, James,” she grits out. “I’m gone two minutes and you’re antagonizing him?”

 

“I’m not!”

 

“He looks ready to run!” Molly says. Then she turns to Mycroft, repeating what James said earlier. “James and I weren’t a couple. I think we’d both been afraid of what might happen if we tried and it didn’t work, or if the other one turned out not to feel the same way. Until you sort of - sparked things along and got things moving.”

 

“So I’m a matchmaker,” Mycroft says, tilting his head back and looking up at the sky. “Wonderful.”

 

“But only because we both liked  _ you _ ,” Molly says, tugging on his arm to secure his attention. 

 

Mycroft hesitates, forgoing another dry quip in hopes her explanation isn’t yet finished.

 

James, very tentatively, touches his other hand.

 

“We do,” he says. Then more quietly, “I’d always regretted not talking to you, before. I’d think of all of these things to say to you, the next time, and then I’d see you and my mouth would glue shut and I would just...run away. I’d think, next time, I’ll do it. I’ll look at him, and I’ll walk over, and I’ll tell him all the things I’ve wanted to say all this time. And eventually the year was up, it was midnight, and I realized you’d be leaving and I couldn’t bear the idea of you, carrying around all those thoughts and words I hadn’t ever told anyone, and going somewhere far, and my never seeing you again.”

 

That makes Mycroft close his mouth.

 

“So,” Molly continues, “what we’re saying is that we would very much like to take you up on your offer.”

 

He narrows his eyes at her.

 

“We’d like to take you out,” she clarifies. “We’d like to date you. Both of us. With you.”

 

“Because we like you,” James adds. “A lot.”

 

Despite the blunt and unceremonious wording, Mycroft is affected. They stare at him with round, hopeful eyes, and Mycroft caves. He ducks his head, blushing.

 

“I’m sure there will be a lot to discuss,” he says quietly.

 

“And we have all the time in the world for it,” Molly says reassuringly. “However you’d like. We can continue as before - we enjoy each other’s company, and I’m sure you and James would love to catch up.” Mycroft meets James’s eyes then, and takes in a long, shuddery breath.

 

“Or if you’d rather think it over some more-”

 

“No, no,” Mycroft cuts her off quietly. “I’d given it ample thought the first time, and I can’t imagine I’d come to any other conclusion given more time. I do want this. Both of you. And if you’ll have me…”

 

He takes both their hands in his, one in each. James squeezes back. Molly grins.

 

.

 

James takes to the new situation the most quickly, tucking himself into Mycroft’s side with proprietary ease and discussing, rather openly, everything he’d failed to say before. 

 

They stroll through the park like the hobos they are as Molly fumes at her desk, typing furiously in response to her barrage of emails. Why is she the only one with a 9-to-5 job! Ridiculous. She glares at her phone as it lights up with a text from Mycroft - a selfie of the two of them. She already  _ knows. _ She got one from James just a second ago!

 

She caves anyway, firing off the email and grabbing her phone to open the picture. It’s of James, and he looks too serious for it to be serious. There’s a message this time too, though, because unlike James, Mycroft has manners. 

 

_ Missing you. Xx _

_ Your’s tonight? We will make dinner. _

_ MH _

 

Molly smiles, but she makes sure to do it behind her computer screen, because Greg has commented twice already how happy she looks recently and she doesn’t want to give anyone any ideas just yet. This is all very new and elicits all sorts of protective responses from her and she just wants to keep both of these men to herself, just a little longer.

 

_ Yes, please. _

 

James cranes his neck to read Mycroft’s text past his shoulder.

 

“Why did she reply to you, and not to me?” he asks.

 

“Because you’re rude and only ever take unflattering photos of me,” Mycroft says simply.

 

“Lies, there are no unflattering photos of you,” James grumbles. 

 

“That’s very nice of you to say, but I am still going to delete that once I get my hands on your phone. Molly will help me.”

 

James mutters something darkly under his breath, all the while wrapping himself around Mycroft’s arm and sticking like glue. 

 

.

 

“Of course I noticed him,” Mycroft whispers conspiratorially to Molly, the two of them cuddled close on the sofa before a movie. “He was always making these eyes at me, and what  _ eyes _ \- but he also had a spectacular knack for running. I never got close enough to talk to him.”

 

Mycroft sighs in mock languor. “How did you manage it?”

 

“Oh!” Molly squeaks, to cover a laugh, startled out of her wide-eyed listening into remembering she is a participant of this story. “Well, I suppose I was lucky; it was through the work.”

 

Mycroft smiles at her, and she giggles, loud enough that James pops his head out from the doorway, looking left and right for them. He’d gotten bitten by an idea mid-dinner, and then and there took up pen and paper to scribble it down, forgetting the existence of both dinner and his significant others. It looks like he’s just now only remembered.

 

James spots them, an offended look on his face.

 

“And what are you two on about?” he asks, making his way over to the sofa and scowling at their laughter. He makes a big show of squeezing himself in between the both of them. “Is it about me?”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, planting a kiss on his head.

 

James sputters, and Molly plants a kiss on his cheek. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk what to say. If you've gotten this far - wow! Thank you everyone who read and commented; your interest meant the world to me. It's an odd story and an odd pairing. I wasn't really sure why I was even sharing it, but I really like this weird little world they've fallen into and look forward to seeing how other characters from Sherlock manifest themselves here and what happens when they start revealing their secrets.


End file.
